


New York State of Mind

by annagarny



Series: New York State of Mind [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Aid, First Kiss, Injury, M/M, Music, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this.<br/>http://www.jeremyleerenner.com/videos/jeremy-renner-singing-new-york-state-of-mind/</p><p>You know where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York State of Mind

Phil had been asleep in his room up on the third floor of Tony Stark's Malibu house when he had sat up in his bed at three AM, staring at the wall and wondering for a moment what the hell was wrong. Then he realised - no noise. The house was eerily silent, and for a man who had grown up on the Upper West Side, it was disconcerting.

 

No garbage trucks, no car alarms, nothing. 

 

He raked his fingers through his hair and slid out of the bed, considered finding a t-shirt and dismissed the thought before it properly surfaced. He was in his soft, old sweatpants and it was three-oh-five in the morning. Nobody else was going to be awake at this hour, surely? And even if they were, most of the Avengers lineup had seen him shirtless or worse at some point - they all used the same showers after sparring sessions and Barton had a habit of using people's clothing against them in hand-to-hand combat sessions - he'd been down to his shorts before he'd given up and surrendered the last time they'd been paired up, and the memory of Clint's eyes raking over him as Phil lay flat on his back, pants twisted around his ankles while he tried to get his breath back, still made his cheeks heat up. 

 

He'd taken a very long, very cold shower after that incident, and had broken into the schedule to alter the sparring roster so that he and Clint didn't wind up in the ring together for a few weeks after that. It didn't bear repeating while Clint was in his 'strip them down to incapacitate' mood, especially with the reaction Phil's body still had any time he thought of Clint's hands on his bare shoulders, sliding down his sides, his thumbs hooking through the waistband of Phil's workout pants, not quite snagging his boxers in the same movement and shucking them down in an attempt to incapacitate his sparring partner.

 

The design of the mansion meant that it was difficult to sneak anywhere, really. Not to mention JARVIS, who seemed to pervade the very air. Phil hadn't liked the AI the first time he'd been in Stark's Malibu house, but he was slowly getting used to it. He stepped out of his room, expecting the disembodied voice to ask him what, exactly, he thought he was doing, but instead a series of lights at ankle-level blinked on, just at his doorway and leading away down the hall. 

 

He turned to his left without conscious thought, heading down the wide staircase with easy, loping strides, silent in his bare feet as he made for the kitchen.

 

_Some folks like to get away_

_Take a holiday from the neighbourhood_

_Hop a flight to Miami Beach_

_Or to Hollywood_

_  
_

Phil stopped, dead. He knew that song, knew that piano part, but the voice was unfamiliar, pitched low, but singing the words with such longing that Phil couldn't stop himself, he crept down the hall towards the bar, where he knew the piano was, pressed against the wall and cursing Tony Stark for designing a house that had curved fucking hallways.

 

_But I'm taking a Greyhound_

_On the Hudson River Line_

_I'm in a New York state of mind_

_  
_

__

He came towards the end of the corridor, where it sort of opened into the sunken lounge area, the piano and the bar on the other side of a set of couches around a large, red, shag rug.

 

There was the piano, and sitting at it was the man Phil had been thinking about for weeks, months, really. Not that he'd admit it to Clint, or to anyone, ever, but since the first time he'd met Barton it had been a struggle for Phil to maintain his 'Agent Coulson' facade whenever the archer was around. 

 

Now here he was, in nothing but sweatpants, creeping through another mans' house in the middle of the night, and he'd found the subject of the fantasies that he definitely hadn't been having, sitting at Tony Stark's grand piano, similarly attired, singing Phil's second-favourite Billy Joel song.

Phil was paused at the end of the corridor, listening as Clint sang, and after a moment he closed his eyes, letting himself drift into the music.

 

_I've seen all the movie stars  
In their fancy cars and their limousines  
Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens  
But I know what I'm needing  
And I don't want to waste more time  
I'm in a New York state of mind   
  
It was so easy living day by day  
Out of touch with the rhythm and blues  
But now I need a little give and take  
The New York Times, The Daily News   
  
It comes down to reality  
And it's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide  
Don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside  
I don't have any reasons  
I've left them all behind  
I'm in a New York state of mind_

 

Clint played a small instrumental interlude, then allowed the instrument to lapse into silence. He sat there for a few moments, took a deep breath and then shifted on the bench. Phil reacted instinctively, taking a rapid step back so as not to be caught watching.

Of course, Tony Stark had random end-tables in his stupid curved hallways, and there were ridiculously breakable things preched on top of those stupid, random tables. In stepping back, Phil knocked a glass vase to the wooden floor and it exploded into a million pieces, the crash schoing through the hallway and reverberating into the bar, where Clint spun about, on his feet and in combat position immediately. 

"Fuck." Phil spat, not daring to move, as there were shards of glass from one side of the hallway to the other, and for a good four feet either side of him.

"Coulson?" Clint called, relaxing slightly at the familiar voice.

"Yeah, it's me." Phil called back, and then heard footsteps crossing the lounge space, slapping against the wood then muted by the rug, smacking again as Clint got closer to him, now walking on the wooden part of the floor again.

"Don't come any closer!" Phil cried out, his voice catching as Clint got to the top step.

"What?" Clint froze - he might not take orders in the field, back-talk and snark at everything he was told to do - one foot on the top step, the other mid-air above the few shards of glass that had scattered that far. He looked down as Phil's eyes darted down to his feet. "Oh."

"Yeah." Phil breathed, looking at his own feet and trying to ignore the cramping already starting in his left calf, he'd frozen with his right foot flat, balancing his weight on the ball of his left. He couldn't drop his left heel, not with the pieces of glass beneath his foot. Clint stepped back, down a step, and surveyed the scene.

"How did you - no, wait. Better question. What the hell are you doing up at this hour?"

"I could ask the same question. Can you just, I don't know, go find a broom or something?"

"Hey, haven't you heard, I don't sleep. Ever."

"You were singing a sad song about New York, Barton. Get a broom, or something."

"I was practicing the piano, because I don't sleep. What were you doing creeping around, shirtless, might I add?"

"It's too freaking quiet out here. And I wanted a glass of water."

"Kitchen's at the other end of this hallway."

"Then I heard the piano and decided to investigate."

"I had it muted. How do you know what I was singing- oh." Something seemed to click inside Clint's head.

"I came down here to see who was singing, I went slowly because I didn't recognise the voice. Now, can you _please_ get something to clean this up before I fall over?"

"Right. Give me a second. Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes, Mr Barton?" Came the somewhat-muted voice from a hidden speaker somewhere nearby. 

"Where would I find something to clean up this mess?"

"You are referring to the shattered Riedel vase at Mr Coulson's feet?" JARVIS asked, and Phil was certain that he heard a note of exasperation in the British-accented AI's voice. 

"Yes, that."

"One moment, sir." They stood there, Phil staring at his feet and shifting his weight slowly onto his front foot, ignoring the tiny shards he could feel sinking into his heel as he did. Clint was still looking at him, he could feel it, and the flush rising from his chest and up his neck wasn't hidden by the two or three layers of clothing he usually had protecting him.

"What are you staring at, Barton?" He snapped after a solid minute of silence.

"You're shirtless."

"I was asleep."

"You've got a decent body."

"I'm an active service field agent, and don't act like you've never seen me shirtless. Remember your little phase, last year?"

"Oh, that."

"Yeah."

"Um, well-" Clint was saved from having to answer by a low buzzing sound reverberating up the hallway behind Phil. He craned his neck to see around Phil, and Phil did his best not to move his feet as he twisted himself to try and catch a glimpse of what was approaching.

"What is that?" he asked, unable to make out the shape in the dark.

"I think it's a Roomba." Clint told him, crossing his arms across his chest and tilting his head to one side as the little robot approached, slowed, then began to make sweeping passes from one side of the hallway to the other, sucking up all of the shards of glass as it went, leaving the floor shining behind itself.

"Huh." Phil finally caught a glimpse of it as it got closer, then turned back to look at Clint. "I wonder what else it can do?"

"What?"

"Like Stark would have anything robotic in this house without messing with it and giving it some kind of idiotic upgrade."

"Good point. Maybe it's rocket powered or something?" Clint suggested. 

"Or he's just upgraded the motor." Phil told him, but secretly he thought Barton was probably closer to the mark than he'd like to admit. 

The little round machine only took a few minutes, bumping against Phil's ankles a few times, before it had the entire hallway cleared of debris, except for the small patch beneath Phil's ankle.

"I believe the problem has now been taken care of, Mr Barton." JARVIS commented as the little robot hovered next to the upturned end-table, its' brushes spinning madly. 

"Thanks, JARVIS."

"There is still an area beneath Mr Coulson that will require attention."

"Yeah, great. Come on, Phil." Clint stepped forward and clapped a hand on Phil's shoulder pulling him forward and away from the scene of his crime, leading him to the couch to sit down.

"Hey, what-" Clint noticed him wincing, of course. 

"I've got glass in my feet, Barton."

"You know,  _Phil_ , we're not in the field. You can call me Clint."

"Fine,  _Clint_ . I have pieces of glass in my heels."

"Right. Stay here."

"What?"

"There's a fully stocked first-aid kit in the kitchen."

"How do you know - you know what. Never mind. I don't want to know how you know that Tony Stark has a first-aid kit in his kitchen, let alone how to find it."

"I set a pan on fire last week - you never noticed the bandage?" Clint held up his arm to reveal a somewhat-grimy bandage around his right wrist. 

Of course Phil had noticed it, even if it had been hidden under long sleeves or Clint's wrist-guard most of the time. He always noticed, didn't he.

"Yeah, I assumed you'd done something stupid with your bow, as per usual."

"Hey, I wear my guard all the time now, after what happened with the first set of incendiary arrows."

"Uh huh. I'll believe that when I see it." Phil commented, lifting his feet up and sliding a cushion under his calves, so that he could put his feet up on the coffee table without pushing the pieces of glass any further into his skin.

Clint smirked at him and took off up the hallway, stepping around the still-buzzing Roomba and making for the kitchen. Phil just leaned back on the couch and considered the events of the past fifteen minutes, his head lolling to one side to catch a glimpse of the large, minimalistic clock hanging over the bar.

Three twenty-five AM. 

His eyes began to slide closed - in spite of the silence, the adrenaline rush from the crashing vase was beginning to ebb, he'd been standing stock-still with his weight balanced on his bad knee at an awkward angle for the better part of ten minutes, and his back wasn't being forgiving about it at all. Damn, he was really getting too old for this crap.

"Phil? You still with me?" Clint asked, his voice low. Phil cracked one eye and found Bart- _Clint_ \- he reminded himself, sitting on the coffee table next to his feet, a red-and-white first-aid kit balanced on his knees. He was still shirtless, but then again, so was Phil. 

"Yeah, just, tired. You know?"

"It is the middle of the night." Clint leaned back on the table and Phil was definitely not watching the play of his abdominal muscles as he moved, no, sir. Phil Coulson's eyes were closed, thank-you-very-much, and what little he could see from beneath his eyelashes was definitely not Clint Barton's deft hands extracting tweezers, iodine and a couple of packs of cotton wadding from the first-aid kit.

"This is going to sting."

"I'm sure I can stand it, I have been shot bef-  _fuck_ !" He hissed the last word through gritted teeth. Sure, he'd been shot, with both bullets and other projectiles. He'd been thrown from a moving car, had his head plunged into ice-water for thirty seconds at a time, even had his pinkie finger broken by a copy of the King James Bible, but holy hell - straight iodine on the tiny slivers of glass embedded in the soles of his feet was right up there as far as pain levels went.

"Told you. Hold still."

"I am holding still, it fucking hurts, Clint."

"I'm aware of this, I've had glass in my feet before."

"You've- what?" This was one injury that wasn't documented in Clint's SHIELD file, which Phil had _not_  read two or three dozen times.

"I was in the circus, Phil. One of the tricks was walking across broken glass, and a few times it wasn't set up right, I wound up with pieces between my toes or embedded in my heels. Just, let me get them out, or you'll have a wicked infection when one of them gets lost in there."

"Yeah, yeah ow! Hey!"

"Shut up."

"Don't tell me to shut up, Clint!"

"Well, fine. Keep complaining. See how long it takes for someone else to wake up and come down here and find us sitting in the lounge half-naked."

Phil grinds his teeth at that, at the presumption, and suddenly there's heat in the pit of his belly, because he's just realised that both of Clint's hands are on him, one gently cradling the achilles tendon of his left foot, the heel of the other resting in the arch of his foot as he gently extracts the tiny pieces of glass from Phil's skin, eyes never leaving his task, methodically dropping the shards into a bowl of water on the coffee table that Phil hadn't noticed until now.

"Damn, some of these are pretty big, you've really made a mess, Phil."

"Yeah, because I totally smashed a vase into my feet on purpose." Phil sighed, his voice much lower than the last time he spoke. He leans his head back again, hoping that if he can't see Clint's laser-like focus directed at him maybe it won't affect him so badly.

 

Nope, that's not going to work. Closing his eyes simply magnifies the tactile reactions he's having to Clint's gentle fingers on his calf, he can feel the hairs on his leg beginning to stand up in response to the smooth movement, almost a caress, as Clint repositions his foot to get better access to the pieces embedded in his heel. Without seeming to think, or notice what he's doing, Clint slides off the coffee table and crosses his legs, twisting around and resting Phil's leg on his shoulder twisting his head so that he can see the cuts up close, pulling a few more pieces of glass out before putting the tweezers down on the table.

 

"I'm going to use a bit more iodine, you might want to bite down on something if you don't want half the house to run in here, it's going to hurt worse than last time."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." Phil jams the first two knuckles of his left hand between his teeth and closes his eyes, hoping that if he can't see what Clint's doing, it won't hurt as much.

 

He was wrong, Clint was right, and it feels like someone's holding a hot poker to his heel for a few seconds, before Clint presses a cold, wet pad of cotton wadding to the series of cuts, and Phil breathes out slowly as the pain recedes.

"You're going to have to report to Medical in the morning, Phil, and they're not going to be happy. You're probably not going to be able to walk properly for about a week."

"Damn, and it's not even because of anything fun."

Clint's head whips around at that, and he's smirking.

"Did you just make a dirty double entendre at me, Agent Coulson?"

"Oh, so what if I did. You made one five minutes ago."

"What, the half-naked thing?"

"Yeah, that."

"Who'd have thought, Phil Coulson, capable of dirty talk."

"You're the one who's got a foot fetish." Phil bites back, but there's no venom in it, he's just grateful to be taken care of. 

"You don't know the first thing about my fetishes, sir."

"It's sir, now, is it?"

Clint doesn't answer, just shuffles slightly sideways and lifts Phil's foot over his head, resting it on his other shoulder so that he is in between Phil's knees, then picks up the other foot, arms himself again with the tweezers and begins to extract the shards from Phil's other heel.

"That one doesn't feel so bad."

"This one doesn't have half as much damage done." Clint tells him, and Phil is suddenly extremely glad that Clint's back is to him, because the feeling of Clint's warm breath against his ankle, his lips almost brushing the protruding bone as he speaks, does something to Phil's mind that he's not entirely certain he can decipher. 

 

The heat in the pit of his stomach is getting worse, and he knows it's only a matter of time, if Clint stays where he is, keeps touching Phil like this, until Clint notices something's, well, _up_. Phil is already having to consciously regulate his breathing so that he's not panting, and the reason he didn't bite down on the corner of the pillow on his lap is that moving it would have revealed the growing tent in the front of his sweat-pants.

 

He watches Clint, sort-of in profile, his head twisted around, chin against Phil's ankle, and tries to think of anything but the steadying hand that is surely a little higher up his leg than is strictly necessary. And now this leg is getting goosebumps, how the hell has Clint not noticed this? The guy makes a point of noticing things that other people want kept hidden, and dragging them into the spotlight, usually in the most mortifying way possible.

 

Then Phil is aware that Clint has stopped with the tweezers, and knows what's coming next, so braces himself with knuckles in his mouth, but the sting isn't as bad on this foot. Clint is quick with the cool water again and it's all over before Phil can really register that it means Clint's going to move, going to get up and go back to his bedroom.

 

Clint doesn't stand up, doesn't put Phil's legs back down on the cushion. Instead, he scoots backwards so that the backs of Phil's knees are over his shoulders, his head between Phil's thighs, rucking Phil's sweatpants up so that his legs are bare from the knees down.

"You really need to get more sun, Phil." Clint tells him, his voice low, as his hands run from Phil's ankles to his knees, fingertips dragging through the coarse hair, rubbing his palms along Phil's shins.

"You think Fury would let me wear Bermuda shorts when I'm on assignment?" Phil manages to get out, without sounding like he's talking past the Rubik's cube sized object lodged in his throat. His heart is hammering, and he can barely think straight. The fact that he managed to string together a coherent sentence is nothing short of a miracle, because Clint Barton is sitting between his knees, running his hands up and down his legs, tracing the edge of his calf where there's a patch of skin with no hair, wearing long pants every day of his working life has simply worn the skin smooth.

"Or you could take up surfing." Clint suggests, and Phil's struggling, he's trying, he really is, but he's certain that Clint is doing this on purpose, pressing his mouth against Phil's knee as he speaks, twisting his head just far enough to catch Phil's eye. "Not that you need to work on your muscle tone, Phil, you've got great legs."

"You should see me in a skirt." Yes, because humor is likely to defuse the situation, and now he's got that image in his head, along with Clint Barton's cheek resting on his thigh, thinking just how much easier life must be for women, with skirts... because if he was, in fact, wearing a skirt right now then all Clint would have to do would be twist a few more degrees, slide his hand up a little higher...

"I'd like that." Clint is smirking at him, over the top of the pillow still on his lap.

"Don't hold your breath, I was in college."

"I'm sure there's photos somewhere." Clint smirks, still not breaking eye contact.

"I'm a SHIELD agent, remember?"

"I remember, sir." And damn if that doesn't send a jolt straight down Phil's spine to his rock-hard cock. 

The pillow twitches.

"Phil, are you hiding something under there?" Clint asks, his eyes flickering down to the pillow as it moves, and he turns further around, Phil's right ankle still on his right shoulder, bending Phil's knee and spreading his legs, Phil's left foot sliding down Clint's arm to come to rest on his knee.

"Clint-"

"Phil." Clint interrupts him, and Phil is rendered speechless by Clint's hand sliding up his leg, behind his knee, under the sweat pants and to the back of his thigh. Phil's gasp makes him smile, devious, and he gently lifts Phil's feet, setting them down on the rug, turning entirely so that he's on his knees between Phil's legs and _fuck,_ if Phil was screwed before, he's not entirely sure there's an accurate description for how just deep in the shit he is now.

"You know, Phil... I see a lot more than people realise. I have bad habits, I leave my radio on when I'm not supposed to, I hide in the crawlspace, I listen to conversations I'm not supposed to. People dont' see me, Phil, because they don't want to. But you- you always see me. You watch me, when you think I'm not looking."

Phil's comprehension level is rather lowered by the haze of lust. Both of Clint's hands are now on his thighs, skimming up towards his hips, around the edges of the pillow, barely skirting the waistband of his pants, fignertips grazing the skin just above it.

 

The pillow twitches, again.

 

"Clint-"

 

Phil doesn't get to finish that thought, because Clint's hands slide up his torso, grip his ribs and Phil is pulled forward as Clint straightens, moving slowly but with such intent that Phil is rendered incapable of cohesive thought as their lips meet. 

 

Phil's mind is momentarily unhinged as he tries to process what's going on. Clint Barton is on his knees, between his legs, hands on his ribs, kissing him at three forty five in the morning, in Tony Stark's living room. He doesn't move for a couple of seconds, before instinct kicks in and he kisses Clint back, twisting his head and angling his mouth so that they're pressed closer together, then Clint is practically melting against him, his hands sliding around Phil's back as their chests connect, Phil's back arches and his nipples are at attention, Clint's hands are on his shoulders, pulling them closer together, and Phil realises that his own hands have somehow migrated from the couch cushion to Clint's hips.

 

The damn pillow is still in his lap and with an unhappy grunt, Phil grabs one corner and tries to tug it away, but he doesn't want Clint to back off, so it barely moves, they're pressed too close together. Phil presses himself back into the couch cushion and in the moment it takes for Clint to lean down into him he pulls the cushion out and there, Clints hips jerk forward and Phil feels his erection pressing against Clint's stomach, Clint's own digging into Phil's thigh.

 

The kiss deepens, Clint's lips parting and his tongue swipes across Phil's lower lip, who sighs and opens his mouth to the intrusion, sliding his hands up Clint's body to his shoulders then back down again, dipping below the waistband on Clint's pants, slowly, hesitant.

 

Clint breaks the kiss, his forehead pressed against Phil's, smirking.

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"You know, I've been meaning to do this for a while." Clint tells him, conversational.

"Do what?"

"Pin you down and have my wicked way with you."

"Oh, really? You're going to have your wicked-" Clint is sneaky, his hand has snaked between them and Phil's sentence is cut off by a gasp as Clint cups him through his sweat pants.

"Yes, sir. I am going to pin you down and ravish you. Now shut up."

 

Phil was happy, for once, to be the one taking orders.

 

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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Portland State of Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/401596) by [PaxieAmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxieAmor/pseuds/PaxieAmor)




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